Rhyim

A soft knock rouses Rhyim from her thoughs.

“Ayumu?”
“Yes.”
“This time, you can come in.”

He smiles softly and slithers inside. She always specifies that it’s a one-time only invitation, and her wards hum around him when he crosses the threshold.

He awaits the day when she finally slips and grants him full permission. So far she hasn’t, and she’s careful with him, though it’s unlikely she knows the full extent of his power.
It is admirable.

“You look… sated.”
He laughs – soft chuckle, yet it’s so cold.
“I am. I had a very satisfying night.”
“I hope no mutilation was involved.”
“Oh please. I’m not a novice.”

She nods. And beckons him closer.

She’s warm, a sinuous body covered with dark tattooed lines under the worn rags, let them think she’s a simple bog witch, let them see a few meaningless patterns here and there, a pouch full of herbs, a little snake on her shoulder, let them believe what they want to believe.

Ayumu touches the hidden part of the message on her soft belly reverently, traces it with his claws, breathes in the heady aura of the ancient magic – and then lowers his head and bites. And drinks, greedily, gulping and chocking, forgetting everything, feeling alive, alive, so alive, and the herb pouches are swaying in rhythm with them above their heads, his screams, her laughs, everything is drowned in the low, deafening hum of the magic choking them both.

She dresses again, raw wounds on her belly already turning into pink blotches of new skin. There won’t be any trace of them by his next visit.

He wouldn’t mind seeing his mark on her.
She would, though. Pity.

“You may leave now,” she dismisses him, turning to a weirdly smelling concoction boiling in the cauldron and not looking at him anymore.

He touches the door and waits for a moment, then silently opens it and disappears into the night.

She never tells him to stay.

He never asks.